“It wouldn’t be twenty-four hours,” she says. “They wouldn’t live here—we’d have teams come inside to complete projects, during the day—”
“We’ve only been in power a matter of weeks. You really think it wise to start bringing strangers into our inner sanctum? My powers are not infallible. People can hide their true feelings from me,” I point out, my voice hardening, “and have done so in the past. I am, therefore, entirely capable of making mistakes, which means you cannot depend on me to be a foolproof defense against unknown entities, which means your plan is faulty.”
Nouria sighs. “I will acknowledge that there is a very, very small chance that you might miss something, but I really feel that it might be wor—”
“Absolutely not.”
“Mr. Warner.” Castle, this time. Softer. “We know this is a lot to ask. We’re not trying to put undue pressure on you. Your position here, among us, is critical. None of us know the intricacies of The Reestablishment as well as you do— none of us is as equipped to dismantle, from the inside, the North American system better than you are. We value what you bring to our team, son. We value your opinions. But you have to see that we’re running out of options. The situation is dire, and we need your support.”
“And this was your plan?” I ask, almost tempted to laugh. “You really thought you could sway me with a bit of good cop, bad cop?” I look at Nouria. “And I take it you’re the bad cop?”
“We have more to do than ever before,” Nouria says angrily. “We can hardly get our own cabins rebuilt. People need privacy, and proper places to sleep. We need to get the schools running again for the children. We need to stop living off generators and automat dinners.” She gesticulates wildly with her arm, accidentally knocking a stack of papers to the floor. “We’re struggling to take care of our own people—how can we be expected to take care of the people of 241, or the sectors beyond that?”
She drops her emotional armor for only a second, but I feel it: the weight of her grief is profound.
“We’re drowning,” she says quietly, running a hand down her face. “We need help. We lost too many of our own in the battle. The Sanctuary is falling apart, and we don’t have time to rebuild slowly. The whole world is watching us now. We need more hands on deck, more crews to come in and help us do the work. If we don’t, we’re going to fail before we’ve even had a chance to start.”
For a moment, I’m silent.
Nouria’s not wrong; the Sanctuary is a disaster. So, too, is the planet. I’ve already sent Haider and Stephan and Lena and the twins back to their respective continents; we needed capable proxies on the ground assessing the current situation abroad—neutralizing chaos wherever possible— and no one was better suited. Nazeera is the only one who stayed behind, claiming that Haider would be fine on his own, that she wanted to stick around for my wedding. I might’ve been flattered by this nonsense if I didn’t know she was lying.
She wanted to stay here to be with Kenji.
Still, I’ve been grateful for her presence. Nazeera is smart and resourceful and has been an immense help these last couple of weeks. The Sanctuary had enough to do when it was trying only to keep its own people alive; now the entire world is looking to us for direction.
Looking to Ella for direction.
What they don’t know, of course, is that she’s been conscious for only four days. When she finally woke up there was so much for her to do—the world had been waiting for proof that Juliette Ferrars had survived—and despite my many, many protests, she agreed to make limited appearances, to issue statements, to begin discussing what the future might look like for the people. She insisted that we get started right away, that we put together a committee responsible for designing the world’s largest public works project—rebuilding towns, schools, hospitals. Investing in infrastructure. Creating jobs, remapping cities.
On a global scale.
Even so, there’s hardly been time to think about these things. I spent most of the last two weeks doing what I could to keep Ella alive while trying to put out as many fires as possible. In a moment of honesty I might even be willing to admit that Kenji’s mistake—knocking down the wrong building—was almost inevitable. There is an infinite number of things to do and never enough people to do it, or to oversee the details.
Which means we’re often making mistakes.
On a micro level, we’re also required to pitch in, rebuild our cabins. Cut the grass. Cook the food. Wash the dishes. Ella dragged me into the kitchen as soon as she was able, slapping a pair of questionable rubber gloves against my chest before tugging on a grimy pair of her own, all the while grinning at the gluey bottom of an oatmeal-encrusted cauldron like it was a gift. If Ella were a house, she would be a grand home, one with many rooms and doors, all of which were easily unlocked, flung open.